


Indistinguishable

by gutterandthestars



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Contests of Dominance, Crack, Humor, Misuse of Precision Instruments, Multi, OT3, Special Agents Have A Special Moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23591404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutterandthestars/pseuds/gutterandthestars
Summary: No, but what if, what if... Their penises are exactly the same size?
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 20
Kudos: 80





	Indistinguishable

“Impossible!” denies Illya, bending to focus more closely on evenly spaced grooves scored into oily grey metal pressed to pink, tumescent flesh. “You are cheating! You are a filthy American cheat!”

Napoleon stares down at Illya, whose scowling face is hovering at crotch height, and squeezes his thumb to the steel rule so it fits more snugly against his penis. It’s becoming a little uncomfortable, in more ways than one.

“American, granted. Cheat - usually. Professionally, even,” he allows, gesturing with his free hand, “but I assure you my hygiene is impeccable, and I defy you to find a way even my - admittedly excellent - talents of misdirection could possibly be employed in this situation.”

Illya makes a disgusted grunt, as if his inability to find a way even the famously light-fingered Napoleon Solo can predigitate extra inches onto either the ruler or his own person is somehow worthy of frustration, and not a matter of simple geometry. Or biology.

“By another metric, then,” growls Illya, stepping back and gripping his own dick, his narrow eyed, suspicious gaze alternating between the two of them in turn. Or parts of the two of them.

“I suppose you want me to bring out the callipers?” asks Napoleon, lightly, raising an eyebrow.

There’s a stony silence from the Russian party, and no eye contact - Illya’s frown now directed firmly at his own flagging erection - but Napoleon can recognise the signs of a pressure cooker building up internal steam. He sighs.

“Callipers it is,” says Napoleon, and reaches over to Gaby’s purloined tool kit.

===

Some minutes later, in her field workshop downstairs, Gaby Teller realises she has mislaid some instruments critical for the task at hand.

Her overalls are stained with axle grease, and she’s tucking rebellious strands of brown hair up into her headscarf as she strays into the shared common room.

“Has anyone seen my brown leather duffle?” she asks, “I swear I left it on the bench next to…”

She registers Napoleon dropping to his knees in front of Illya, wielding a pair of callipers and an expression of concentration.

Gaby trails off, stunned to silence. She snaps her jaw shut. Two professional spies look up from… whatever it is they’re doing.

“What is this?” she asks, tone clipped.

Illya, uncharacteristically, recovers first. He steps back, paying no heed to his manhood swinging free in the late summer sunshine, and gestures curtly and somehow vexedly at Napoleon Solo.

“His penis. It is _exactly_ same size as mine. Same length, same girth. Ridiculous.”

This does not, to Gaby, really explain anything. She shakes her head as if to clear it and turns to her other field partner.

Solo, who’s still kneeling on the floor and - true to form - holding an object that does not belong to him (thankfully, only the callipers), heaves himself to his feet, casually tucking himself in.

“I don’t know why he has such a fixation about it, Agent Teller,” says Napoleon, earnest sincerity broadcast from his face as if she’s a mark, and this is a mission. He’s not fooling anyone in the room. “Sure, it’s a quirk of nature, and a little unlikely, I admit, but…”

Gaby briefly closes her eyes and holds up a hand, for quiet. She is obeyed.

“I know I’ll regret asking this, but - what brought this on?” she asks.

There’s some shuffling of feet.

“We were having heated discussion,” says Illya, mulishly. “He said, ‘Maybe you should take it out and measure it,’ So. I measure it.”

He makes a matter-of-face gesture to his state of semi-undress, drawing Gaby’s gaze, and then blanches. He blushed a shocked pink and perforce the member responsible for his state of consternation wilts slightly. 

“It’s fair to say things escalated,” agrees Napoleon, noting Illya’s discomfort and stepping in, hands upraised.

“So your original disagreement…?” prompts Gaby.

“Irrelevant, as it turns out. Not important,” claims Napoleon, grinning broadly. “What’s important, am I right, Illya, is that underneath, we’re the same.”

“We are not the same,” hisses Illya, recovering his composure.

“Our data says otherwise,” counters Solo.

“Ah, but I have foreskin.” 

“It’s really quite sweet, don’t you think? That we have this in common?” 

“It is an insult,” grates out Illya.

“Suck it up, Peril,” smirks Solo, and Illya snorts.

“You only wish, Cowboy,” he starts, rounding on Napoleon.

“Can I have my tool bag back?” Gaby interrupts, and the two of them stop, clearing their throats.

Napoleon brandishes the callipers with a pleased smile. 

“I’m not touching those,” she tells them, ignoring the proffered tool as she swipes the handles of her holdall, and hauls it back to the workshop.

===

A minute later, she’s back - Solo and Illya have barely resumed their argument.

She eyes them both speculatively a moment and sucks her teeth.

“You know, I could have found you a better way to settle this,” says Gaby, tilting her chin meaningfully, sharp eyes narrowing, “without stealing my equipment.”

“What?” says Illya, as Napoleon says, “I beg your pardon?”

“Perhaps you need a practical challenge of some sort,” she offers, casually examining her greasy nails.

“You have, uh, an idea?” manages Napoleon, while from the corner of his eye he can see Illya’s own eyes are bulging, and his jaw is slack.

“Actually,” says Gaby, discarding her headscarf and moving to unbutton her overalls, “I have a few ideas.” She goes up on the tips of her booted toes to kiss first Napoleon and then, with the aid of a conveniently low side table as a step-stool, Illya, who’s now wearing the adoring puppy gaze he always has around Gaby.

She strides towards one of the bedrooms, glancing over one bare shoulder at the two men left standing in the living room. “When it comes to competition, I hear it’s not what you’ve got, but what you do with it that counts.”

“You’re inviting us to, uh, compete?” clarifies Napoleon.

“If that’s what it takes. Although the ideal outcome here is none of us lose,” adds Gaby, swaying in the doorway with one hand on the frame.

Napoleon’s eyebrows are levitating from his forehead, but he’s beaten to the punch by Illya, who’s looking far too smug for a man who’s still fully dressed with his dick hanging out.

“I assume you’re as bad at this as you are at spying, Cowboy,” he tosses out casually, following their shorter partner out of the room.

“Oh it’s on,” calls Napoleon, belatedly, as he scrambles after them, loosening his tie.

===

Gaby snores like a diesel generator, drooling gently on Illya’s left bicep. To his right, Napoleon Solo is out like a light, fist tucked under his dimpled chin.

Illya prefers to work alone. Being part of a team requires compromise. Alone, his pride can remain intact. People, institutions… They complicate things, often painfully. There has been a long list of circumstances that have required Illya to relinquish his pride over the years – usually against his will.

He watches Gaby in the half-light, feels the dishing in the mattress as it accommodates Napoleon’s bulk next to his own.

Illya is starting to think in this case, the benefits of teamwork might actually outweigh the discomforts.

Although his penis, Russian as it is, remains the superior member.

===

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry.


End file.
